


Peanut Butter Soup For The Vulcan Soul

by BaronessEmma



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Culture, F/M, Fandom Commentary, Gen, Mind Meld, Poetry, Song Parody, Starfleet Academy, Tags will be added, feel-good stories, friendships, happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronessEmma/pseuds/BaronessEmma
Summary: A series of unconnected oneshots, focusing mostly on sweet Nyota/Spock, with a liberal helping of Jim & Spock friendship, and a good sprinkling of the rest of the bridge crew for good measure. Rated G-T





	1. Peanut Butter Soup For The Vulcan Soul

It had been a miserable day. The replicators had been out of order since before breakfast; an energy relay malfunction had put all shipboard lighting on the fritz unless it was set to emergency-level dimness; the Laikeen whip-vines had gotten loose in the conservatory; a few inaccurately soldered wires in the comm unit upgrades had put her departmental work back _weeks_ ; both Jim and Hikaru were grumpy from one of their rare but bitter arguments; the harmless but impressively stinky Belltor mice Bones was studying for Starfleet Medical had somehow escaped into the air vents and their odor could not be swept out until all of them were found; and to top it off, a nasty 'flu was making its way through the non-Human members of the _Enterprise_ crew.

Bones had diagnosed it as the common Klickkan'jura cold, and said it had probably gotten aboard with the Botany department's shipment of decorative Juraleen patchwork moss. Ironically, the moss had been part of an effort to improve morale by brightening up the mess hall and rec-rooms. But instead of making things better, joint pain, headaches, sore throats, and fevers resulted for nearly 30% of the crew. Everyone had been exposed before Bones could synth up a vacc. It wasn't dangerous by any means, but it was annoying, and while the Humans were immune, 100% of the non-Humans aboard were listed among the effected species.

Spock, being half-Human, had of course ignored the quarantine protocols to pull extra shifts in the Science labs, and, of course, managed to ignore his symptoms too, making his resulting illness much worse than it needed to be.

Of course.

Nyota sighed.

Really.

Men.

She sighed again, stirring the pot of soup over her makeshift hot-plate a little more vigorously than was wise given the precarious setup. If they hadn't been flying through space, she was sure it would have been a dreary, muggy, sticky, drippy day into the bargain.

Still. . .

There were a few good points about the situation. She hadn't had a chance to make her mother's recipe for peanut butter soup for. . . for. . . well, _years_.

She'd replaced the chicken broth with vegetable stock, the shredded chicken with _ketek-barkaya_ \- a sort of marinated Vulcan tofu-ish bean-curd (heaven only knew why the kitchens stocked it, but she was very glad they did) - and she had doubled, then tripled the amount of red pepper flakes the recipe called for, but all in all she thought it was a pretty okay effort, especially since it was so spur-of-the-moment.

Picking up a spoon, she tasted it one last time, making absolutely sure the sweet-potatoes were cooked all the way though. She smacked her lips over the small bite - not only did it taste good, it was quite invigoratingly spicy.

She smirked. If she knew Spock at all, he would love it.

Carefully, she ladled out two bowls full, and arranged them neatly on the nearby hovertray. She put her hands on her hips, happily surveying the portable camping stove, extra stasis unit, and makeshift rinsing/chopping station she'd managed to get Scotty to rig up for her.

"Oh aye, annythin' far you two lovebirds," he had said, and grinned unashamedly. "I'm wishin' I had such a lassie as you, you know." He had reached out and patted the nearest bulkhead, "Not that my girlie is lacking for talents, mind, but she hassent the least bit of skill with food, more's the pity."

She had agreed, commiserated with him for a moment on the _Enterprise_ 's skittish replicators, and then thanked him warmly. The truth was, very few on Terra had much skill with food any more. Chefs had, of course, and some farmers, but very few others. But her mother had been highly insistent that she and her brothers learned to cook, even taking it to the point of enrolling each of them in the special six-week cooking course their local secondary school offered every summer.

Consequently, Ny felt very accomplished at the sight - and taste! - of her stew, and the little kitchenette that had made it possible.

At last, she turned away, lightly pushing the hovertray before her. The quarters she and Spock shared were blessedly spacious by shipboard standards - perhaps. . . perhaps she could convince Spock to let her keep her little kitchen.

_Whoa there. Easy. Let's see how he likes the soup first._

She paused in front of the bedroom door.

Huh. Funny.

She had been so confident just moments before. And she _did_ know his tastes, and her abilities. The likelihood that he would find her cooking more than acceptable was very high.

And yet. . .

There was something about the act of cooking, she supposed. Something primal and natural that went beyond food. Cooking - no, cooking _for someone_ \- was powerful, intimate. . .

_Loving._

That was it. _Loving._

He might be half-Human, but he lived as though he was full-Vulcan - and as such, he rarely told her he loved her. Consequently, she rarely told him either. The bond they shared made many of the verbal endearments unnecessary, but she _was_ still Human, and suddenly, ridiculously, she was nervous that her blatant love-token would not be satisfyingly appreciated.

_Silly, silly._

She didn't need him to say it. She only needed him to feel it. Whatever he felt, she felt - that was the glory of the bond.

But would he?

If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to hide it.

Every other time she had given him something, or done something for him, it had been _after_ she had felt his wishes - conscious or otherwise - through the bond. This was the first time she would be doing something for him without knowing exactly how he felt about it.

Strange, strange.

How horribly, frighteningly _safe_ the bond made their relationship. There was never any questioning, never any wondering, never any mystery about what the other person might be feeling at any point during the day or night.

It was wonderful, incredible. Ecstatic, beautiful, intoxicating, and at times pure delicious heaven.

But it was also. . . _unhuman._

Had she fallen in love with a Human man she would have been used to not knowing exactly how he felt about things, and she would not have to worry if he couldn't hide his feelings afterward. If she had fallen in love with a Human -

_Stop it. You fell for Spock. And he's sick right now, and needs the soup you made him._

Oh yeah.

Need.

There was that too.

She took a second to be thankful that this sickness was not the dangerous fever of _pon farr,_ and then finally activated the door.

He was laying flat on his back, but clearly awake, for he was performing Vulcan acupressure on his forehead. The malfunctioning lighting was fortuitous in this case, since Spock had indicated a particularly sharp headache among his most egregious symptoms.

He carefully sat up when he saw her. Then he slowly inhaled, struggling with a nose he had little experience of ever being stuffy.

"That smells. . . enticing." His voice was gravelly, and much deeper than usual. Had he not been so miserably sick, she might have found it rather enticing herself. . .

"My mother's recipe for peanut butter soup. Suitably tweaked and enhanced, of course."

"Of course."

"I hope it's spicy enough for you."

"Given that my sense of taste has been dulled by my illness, I hope so too."

She pushed the tray over to him, deftly removing her own bowl and turning to set it on his nearby desk. "Tell me if it needs salt or anything."

"Nyota?"

A strange tone had entered his voice, clearly detectable to her, even through the warping static of his sore throat. She felt curiously reluctant to turn and face him.

"Nyota?"

The tone was still there, more commanding now. She turned and looked at him.

He was offering her the _ozh'esta_.

Slowly, very slowly, she reached out with her own two fingers, and wrapped them around his.

His skin, always fever-hot, was positively grilling now. But behind the distracting heat there was the usual buzz and hum of his emotions - a complex, brilliant, engaging music that she loved to listen to, and was beginning to understand.

 _I heard your worry,_ K'diwa.

 _Oh._ She blushed hot with her own fever of shame.

_You must not worry. Nor be ashamed for worrying._

_But I -_

_Am Human. I am aware._

His mind-voice was not gravelly or any deeper than normal, but it was _warmer_ somehow. . .

_I cannot give you Human assurances, adun'a, but I can remind you why we became friends and lovers in the first place. . ._

He looked her straight in the eyes, his own face flushed green and eyes too bright with fever, but still he could communicate everything he needed with a look.

Then he took a bite of soup.

The sensation burst across the bond and _ozh'esta_ at the same time. First, the heat of the pepper, blended with the rich texture of the broth. Then, the bite of sweet potatoes, and the smooth silkiness of the _ketek-barkaya_. As he chewed, he got more of the flavors, but dulled, as he had said. Still, there was only pleasure in his experience, which was only slightly offset by having to swallow it down a scratchy throat. But the texture and heat of it made even this pleasant - only one bite, and some of his discomfort had already been soothed.

 _You see,_ ashalik _?_

_I see that you like it. And I am gla-_

_That is not what I mean, adun'a. It is very good, but I did not show you my reaction so clearly because I wanted to reassure you that you are a good cook._

Nyota's breath caught in her throat, _You didn't?_

_No._

_Then wh-_

_Because our souls speak across time and space,_ k'hat'n'dlawa _. We fit. We are suited to each other._ A shimmer of music went though the bond that meant he was smiling at her. _I may be ill, but I have not forgotten my responsibilities as your husband._

_Your. . ._

_Yes._

She smirked wryly at him, _Are you sure you're_ _ **up**_ _for that?_

A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, _That is not what I am referring to._

_No?_

_No._

_Then what_ _**do** _ _you mean?_

_I mean that I swore to make your dreams come true. And I have not forgotten that vow._

"That's very sweet, Spock," she said out loud, finally taking up her own bowl and digging in. "But I'm still not quite sure what you mean." She mumbled around a large chunk of sweet potato, "What dreams are you talking about?"

He took another precise bite, chewing and swallowing before he answered her. "You made this meal to care for me, correct?"

"Yeah, of course."

"But, you also found more fulfillment in the act than simply that, did you not?"

She paused a little, "Well. . . yes. I mean, cooking - and especially cooking _well_ \- isn't something everyone can do, and yeah, I liked doing it."

"For its own sake?"

"I guess so. For its own sake, yeah."

He gave his almost invisible smile again. "Then, there is no need to convince me to retain your cooking apparatus. It makes you happy. Therefore, you do not have to ask for my permission." His voice turned uncomfortably raspy, but he was still in utter earnest, "Even if I disapproved, which I do not, a Vulcan husband does not have the right to impede his wife in such a manner." He turned his head, and coughed, in obvious pain from speaking aloud.

"It's okay Spock, don't talk any more. And. . . thank you." So many Human emotions were swirling about in her head, she needed him to stop speaking herself. She felt so much more than thankfulness. . . and so much more than she could say to him.

But, of course, he knew that too. . .

He nodded his head in response, and returned to eating his soup.


	2. Opposite Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Rated T for Gaila and themes. Woo. (^_^)

"Have a terrible time!" Ny called cheerily after Gaila as the green-skinned girl trotted off with her latest bevy of infatuated admirers.

"You bet!" returned her friend's voice, slightly muffled against some guy's neck, "Oh, uh, I mean, I won't!" She giggled, and the three men she was kissing laughed too.

Ny shook her head bemusedly. It might be Opposite Day, but Gai was Gai, forever and ever, world without end, and she could never - would never - pass up a wild make-out session with wide-eyed freshmen.

The semester was only a week and a half old, too, so there WERE some wide-eyed freshmen that Gaila hadn't made out with yet. . .

Ny, not at all eager to watch the retreating orgy-in-the-making, quickly turned down the hallway that led to Commander Spock's office.

Today had been fun, all things considered. She had wished folks a dreary day, walked through the halls backwards, worn an admiral's insignia, and had ordered a huge plate of gooey, bacon-y, extra-cheesy mac-and-cheese and nothing else for lunch. Not even a carrot stick. She'd probably pay for all the salt and carbs later, but man had it been good.

She and her friends had watched, and laughed at, the musical department's attempt to play the Terran Anthem backwards; they'd caught the tail end of a joke Parrises Squares tournament where everyone was ramming each other with pillows; they had enjoyed the hamburgers the mess hall served for breakfast and were looking forward to the planned cereal and assorted fruits for dinner; and it had been endlessly amusing to go to classes and see their professors greet students backwards, answer some questions deliberately and absurdly wrong, come to class dressed like cadets, show up with brilliantly dyed hair or skin, and one had even _sung_ all day instead of speaking.

Yes, that had all been fun. And now, time for two hours uninterrupted time with Dommander Strict, as Gaila called him, who probably thought the whole thing hopelessly illogical, and anyone willingly participating therein disgustingly out of line.

She sighed a little, placing her hand on his office's door-scanner. The Commander was a brilliant person, and agreeable enough in his own way, but his radically dry sense of humor made him seem distinctly cold, at times.

The door to his office did not open to her handprint, even though he had programmed it to do so ever since the first day she started working with him.

Odd.

"Door open, Override - UhuraA764."

The door was mute to her command, but Spock's voice came over the intercomm -

"Access granted for Cadet Uhura."

His voice, neutral as always, did not hint that anything strange was going on.

But, as she walked in, she _knew_ there was. Had to be.

He was sitting in the dark, his face illuminated only by the pale bluish glow of his computer screen.

He had never before failed to greet her either, but there he was, focused on his work, ignoring her presence completely.

Ny's brow furrowed. . . this was _really_ odd.

Shrugging a little, she tried to shake off how strange this all felt, and walked to her desk, saying as normally as possible -

"Good afternoon, Sir. Would you like me to grade the third section's Unit 1 test today?"

He looked up at her, briefly. "No, thank you, Cadet."

"Would you like me to post the updated simulation schedule?"

"No, thank you."

"Next week's extra credit requirements?"

He shook his head solemnly.

"How about going over some recordings for my thesis?"

"No."

She sighed, frustrated now. "So, what WOULD you like me to do?"

He did not answer, but slowly stood, and, touching some hidden switch, brought up the lights. As he came around his desk, she began to notice the oddest thing of all. . . his clothes did not seem to fit. Normally, he moved with perfectly tailored grace, but now, his motions were hampered by several inelegantly bunching sections of cloth, and at least three more oddly baggy portions.

_What. . . .?_

Her gaze drifted down to his boots, as he stood silently before her. The standard Starfleet-issue shoes were perfectly polished, as usual, but they looked wrong, somehow. . . . bent. . . .

"You!" she gasped, sudden clarity then rendering her wordless for a full two seconds, "You're wearing your shoes on the opposite feet! And your clothes backwards!"

He nodded, an expression suspiciously like a smile hovering around his mouth.

"You didn't teach your morning classes like that, did you?"

He leaned back against his desk with magnificent nonchalance.

"No, Cadet," he said, in a voice that would be terse if it were not for the tone of pure _amusement_ back behind it, "Rest assured, my reputation as the "most uptight" professor at the Academy is well secure."

"And the unresponsive door, and sitting in the dark, and not saying hi?"

"Were also my interpretation of 'Opposite Day', yes."

Ny tried to stay annoyed, but she couldn't help it. She sat heavily on her own desk, and gave in to a long peal of laughter.

He stood there calmly through it, the same look of almost-smiling touching the edges of his posture.

"You!" she exclaimed, a long minute later, "You're the very last person I'd have expected to participate in _Opposite Day_ of all things!"

His head tilted in his approximation of a shrug. "I must admit, if I had not been more than reasonably certain it would amuse you, I would have done nothing of the kind."

She looked him up and down, guffawing again, "Well, you did that, I must say."

"I do not believe I have ever told you how pleasant I find your laughter."

This confession came so suddenly, and with his normal unemotive tone, that it took an unaccountably long series of seconds for Nyota to process the words.

_Did he just. . .?_

"Si-r?" she finally managed to stutter out, "Uh-m."

He remained leaning against his desk, cool and collected, completely unfazed by his ridiculous getup.

"It is Opposite Day, Nyota. You may call me by my given name."

_Oh, yes he did. . ._

She gaped a little, and blinked a few times. "Si-Spock. . . what. . . what _do_ you want me to do here today?"

At last, a vestige of awkwardness peeked through his stoic demeanor. His feet shuffled a tiny bit as he took half a step towards her, then stopped. His mouth opened, but for a moment he looked like he did not know what to say.

"Nyota," he said, then stopped. His eyes slid sideways a moment, as though he were amused or annoyed with himself.

Then he looked back at her, and dropped his voice to a mere whisper.

"Why is it, Nyota, that you are such an inspiration to me, and yet when you are near, I can hardly find words to speak?"

Her mouth, still open from her previous shock, stayed open for another handful of seconds before she finally remembered to close it.

"I. . . did not know I was doing either, Si-Spock."

He nodded, a very Human gesture. "You have. I am. You do."

For Spock, it was practically babbling.

Nyota, suddenly feeling a rush of power the like of which she had never known before, took pity on the poor boy.

_If I can make him_ _**babble** _ _. . ._

"Spock," she said, for the first time with boldness, "Would you like to go out to dinner with me tonight?"

His eyes snapped to hers, then intently searched her face. "You. . . are in earnest?"

She grinned, a warm feeling seeping through her heart.

_Why have I never noticed just how_ _**cute** _ _. . .?_

"Yes."

"I accept."

"Good." She jumped up from her desk. It was Opposite Day, and she had the first date of the decade to prepare for. She could skip out this one time. "Pick me up at 19:30, don't be late, and uh - " she stepped closer to him than she ever had before, "Wear your clothes the right way around, okay?"

Very slowly, very gently, he traced the back of a fingernail down the side of her face. Then, he leaned even closer and whispered, "Yes ma'am."

All the boldness rushed out of her with a single pulse of adrenaline, leaving behind a totally different sort of warmth.

_Wow!_

Suddenly breathless, she spun and fled from his office before either of them did something hideously improper.

For his office.

Hideously improper _for his office._

All at once, the prospect of the rest of the term stretched out before her, a panoply of options, a veritable zoo of possibilities. He was Vulcan, or mostly, so. . .

_So many questions. . ._

And tonight, she was certain, she would begin to get the answers.

_Well. Opposite Day indeed._

She smiled. Gaila would be _so_ jealous.


	3. Let Sleeping Vulcans Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Rated T for non-graphic married nookie

"Quantum banana typhoid wingnuts."

Nyota heard her husband's voice quite clearly, but he, uncharacteristically, made no sense.

"Herald pontoon half turn manatee."

She rose from her desk, and peeked tentatively into their bedroom.

"Twelve, onion bark two deep kale."

It was a rare afternoon off for the both of them, and, strangely for him, Spock had felt in need of a nap, but she did not.

She would have joined him anyway, and he had indeed asked her to, but there was a brand new transmission from Gaila she wanted to listen to.

The _Sundiata_ 's scouting mission had found a space-capable humanoid race with a _very_ interesting set of languages. Gaila, as mission commander, had been sending back a wide range of recordings, both before and after she had initiated First Contact, and Uhura had been studying them constantly, trying to discover this new race's idiomatic identity - a crucial step in being able to properly program the UT for their language set.

Plus, the whole experience was fascinating, and practically the reason she had joined Starfleet, so she was greatly enjoying it.

She had explained all this to Spock, but instead of his usual logical understanding, he had half-sneered, and practically _growled_ that she spent far too much time working - that they both did - and it was high time they took some leave.

She had laughed him off, saying they could very easily take some time off at their next port of call in two months, but back behind her casual words, there was a sudden spike of. . . . . . . . . something. It was a vague feeling, not dark enough for fear, nor bitter enough for worry, nor clear enough for regret.

Through the bond, she felt Spock's puzzlement at her sudden emotion, so it wasn't a feeling coming from him either.

They both shrugged it off, and each turned to their chosen activity.

Not half an hour later though, hearing such random nonsense coming from her husband's mouth, the feeling returned, redoubled in its odd, almost alien intensity.

"Tuba door glitter parts per billion."

He was sleeping perfectly normally, not flushed or restless, settled on his back, motionless under the covers save for his breathing.

And those strangely random words, of course.

"Backgammon, Nyota please."

She started at her name.

"No Nyota, no more ginger ale."

Her vague feeling turned to an intense curiosity.

_What could he possibly be dreaming? . . ._

"Ashal-veh, you cannot knit the eel."

She took a hesitant step towards the bed, wondering if it would be alright if she. . .

_They are his private thoughts. . ._

And yet, they were married, bonded and mated, and it was considered perfectly normal for Vulcan couples to share thoughts. . . and dreams too.

And it wasn't like they hadn't co-dreamed before. . .

And he _had_ invited her to take this nap with him. . .

"Fossil fuels are not used any more, my beloved."

Curiosity got the better of her, and she darted to his side, knelt on the edge of the bed, and slowly, still tentatively - for three years was still too short a time to make initiating a meld feel normal to her - she put her fingers to his face, reached out through the bond, and quietly mouthed the words -

"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your th-

_"There is no palfrey in the wind."_

_"Make sure the jacaranda feeds the gerbil."_

_"Wary juice keel venture duck."_

_She was in a purple whirlwind of random words, watching as some coalesced into nonsense phrases, and others broke apart into gleaming shards of memories. She could hear the vast store of words he had to draw upon - could hear them all at once in the great silent whisper that lay beyond the thick cloud of his dream. It was his mind, and it was feeding the storm, but not directing it, as she assumed he usually did._

_"Martial broom, fish, jack, and woad."_

_It was like standing inside a shroud of smoke, unknowing where the fire came from._

_"Fire. Nyota fire. Fire. Set on stun. Fire. Shoot to kill. Run!"_

_Out of the murmuring violet fog there came a gout of blue flame, huge, yet remote, as though she stood at the foot of some ancient volcano, newly awakened._

_"Nyota, my wife. . . . "_

_Spock's voice came from far away, echoing across the timeless landscape of his mind, but he was also there, of a sudden, standing beside her._

_He was clothed in a swathe of blue flames, his eyes flashing with argent lightening._

_"Nyota, my love," he said with a voice like Death, and like Life, and all the deities in between, "You must leave."_

_She stared at him, so overwhelmed with words she could not at that moment speak._

_"I. . . . . . cannot," she said finally, and it felt like doom._

_"So be it," he said, with the sound of distant thunder._

_Like living things, great lances of fire reached out and enveloped her, taking hold of her soul and drawing her to him. When their bodies touched, his arms enclosed her, and his mouth descended to hers._

_It was like falling into the sun, with all the poignancy of moonlight, and all the eternity of the stars._

_It was more than a kiss. So much more that all the words were silenced, and the purple mist melted into crystal brilliance. . .  
_

After an untold string of forevers, Nyota awoke, her body still singing from the completely unexpected pleasure. She had no idea where her clothes had gone, nor did she care.

_Wow! That was some dream!_

Initiating a meld with him had never led to _that_ before.

Well. . . nothing that intense, anyway. . .

Spock was still deeply asleep, laying half on her, and half on a pile of what she assumed used to be bedclothes. The echo of his mind was now quiet, free from chaotic words and primal fire. But his skin was burning hot now, far hotter than even his normal fever-warmth. He never slept this deep, nor got this hot - because he simply was never sick. Her mind was still too full of endorphins to worry about him, but a small portion of that vague feeling finally resolved itself. It was _urgency_. And when she smoothed a hand down his back and felt actual _sweat_ coming off him, she finally understood.

_The Time . . . . . ._

He had, naturally, told her about this before they had bonded, had expressed his doubts and fears, and his hopes and desires.

Of course, now that she saw it, she realized there was no way to be _fully_ prepared.

But they _had_ taken some precautions, and McCoy figured largely in them.

He stirred the minute a thought involving another man crossed her mind.

 _Shhhhhhh, it's alright_ , she projected at him, _I'm here for you, Spock, love, only you. . ._

He settled almost immediately, and fell back into oblivion.

She sighed, the warm luxury of the afterglow finally clearing a bit. In a minute she'd call Christine, and ask her for the food, water, and other supplies they'd arranged to get from Bones. She'd also ask her to inform Len that she and Spock would be taking a week's leave a bit earlier than intended, and would he please inform the Captain and their departments?

Gaila's scouting mission was due back in three days, and Nyota needed her people on that UT re-program as soon as possible. . .

 _Oh, shoot_ , she thought, the downsides of spending an unplanned week in a love nest finally presenting themselves.

Plus, they were four days from a stellar nursery, and a dark matter nebula was on the agenda too.

She was two steps away from being annoyed, but she looked over at Spock, his sleeping face far more expressive than it ever was when awake, and she willingly let go of all next week's schedule. He was more important than even the best laid plans.

She pet his shoulder again. For her, he was more important right now than anyone else on the ship.

Including herself.

She wiggled out from under him, quickly took a long drink of water, and snagged a clean sheet. Then she crawled back over to him, covered them both up with the cool, clean cotton, and snuggled into his hot skin.

For the first time, she noticed he smelled different too.

_So that's what those "mating pheromones" smell like. Whelp. This is gonna be a week of discoveries, better get used to it and hunker down._

She half-smirked, a whole raft of previously inscrutable Vulcan traditions suddenly making a lot of sense.

And then, a sad memory, but also a good one, and now revealed to be much more useful than she had known then - the one time she had met his mother.

"Let sleeping Vulcans lie, my dear," Amanda had said, wryly, "You never know what they're keeping hidden in those hearts of theirs."

Sarek had given his wife a flat, stern look at this, and later, Spock had explained that in Vulkansu "keeping hidden" had a particularly. . . intimate, idiomatic meaning.

"Hidden indeed," she whispered lovingly against his arm, and settling herself comfortably against him, she slept while she could.


	4. I Don't Have A Favorite Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honor of ST: Discovery - Welcome to the family, new Trek show! Whether you're good, bad, loved or hated, you're one of us now!
> 
> A/N - Inspired by (ahem*blatantlyrippedofffrom*ahem) the Hank Green song "I Don't Have A Favorite Pony". Listen to it here - https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=x8tVoriImK8
> 
> Don't forget to be awesome!

There's a question that Trekkies ask -  
And I don't really get it.  
Every time I tell them I don't really know,  
I always come to regret it.  
  
'Cause hundreds of thousands of people,  
Never cared about anything more.  
They've spent the last five decades,  
Making magazines, fanfic and cosplays,  
And I think all that excitement is great.  
  
But when they ask,  
I have no choice.  
I still have to say. . .  
  
That I don't have a favorite Captain -  
'Cause, have you seen these shows?  
No, I don't have a favorite Captain -  
Yeah, I've seen every episode,  
And I don't have a favorite Captain -  
What really can I do?  
  
I don't have a favorite Captain -  
'Cause I.  
Just.  
Can't.  
Choose.  
  
Well Janeway is a strong woman,  
Which means a lot to me,  
And Sisko is the badass,  
That I really love to see.  
And Archer is the kind of guy,  
To whom we can all relate,  
But New Kirk is an action star,  
That I think is really great.  
And Picard brought the series back,  
Plus he's nerdy and philosophical,  
Why should I even mention Kirk?  
'Cause you can't top an original.  
  
Oh, I don't have a favorite Captain -  
'Cause, have you seen these shows?  
No, I don't have a favorite Captain -  
Yeah, I've seen every episode,  
And I don't have a favorite Captain -  
What really can I do?  
  
I don't have a favorite Captain -  
'Cause I.  
Just.  
Can't.  
Choose.  
  
Is it at all possible,  
We shouldn't focus on the past,  
And instead spend all this time,  
Making a future that will last?  
  
But it's equally probable,  
 That instead of changing how we see,  
We'll spend the next thirty years,  
Arguing over continuity!  
  
Problems in the real world,  
Get so easily out of hand.  
It's all so much easier in Roddenberryland!  
  
But I don't have a favorite Captain -  
I don't have one even though,  
I've spent years trying to pick,  
And re-watching my favorite episodes,  
Yeah, I don't have a favorite Captain -  
And I'm not going to lie,  
I don't have a favorite Captain -  
'Cause I . . .  
I,  
Like,  
Pike.  
(~_-)


End file.
